In Vernian scholarship, it has long been known how the nineteenth-century
editor and publisher Pierre-Jules Hetzel "discovered" Jules Verne in
1862, immediately recognized his potential, and published his first novel Cinq
semaines en ballon (Five Weeks in a Balloon) the following year. It is also
common knowledge how he asked Verne to write other "scientific
fictions" for his very successful family journal Magasin d’éducation
et de Récréation and how, throughout the ensuing 24 years of their
collaboration, Hetzel personally "guided" Verne in the writing of his
earliest and most celebrated Voyages Extraordinaires—a series first
announced in Hetzel’s editorial preface to Verne’s Voyages et aventures
du capitaine Hatteras (1866, Voyages of Captain Hatteras). And, finally,
Verne scholars have also long been aware that Hetzel was not only Verne’s
publisher, editor, and literary mentor but also served as a kind of père
spirituel to his young protegé: a never-ending source of paternal
encouragement, professional advice, and sometimes—as evidenced by his firm
rejection of Verne’s manuscript of Paris au XXe Siècle (1994, Paris in
the Twentieth Century)—editorial discipline.

What has not been known, however, were the precise details of Verne and
Hetzel’s personal and professional collaboration. For example, to what extent
was Hetzel a "hands-on" editor—i.e., responsible not only for
accepting, rejecting, and/or editing Verne’s manuscripts, but also for
generating the very ideas in the manuscripts themselves? How and where did
Hetzel, for ideological or commercial reasons, feel obliged to censor Verne’s
works? How did Verne react to Hetzel’s censorship? How did he respond to
Hetzel’s proposed rewrites? And in what way did the dynamics of their
relationship change as Verne became progressively more famous?

Such details of how Verne and Hetzel actually worked together have, until
recently, been very difficult to ascertain. Toward the end of his life, Verne
destroyed all his personal letters; most of his original manuscripts were either
lost or have been in private collections and inaccessible to scholars; and
Hetzel’s papers were hidden away in the archives of the Bibiothèque Nationale.
During the past few decades, however, thanks to the efforts of Verne scholars
and collectors such as Olivier Dumas (president of the Société Jules Verne)
and Piero Gondolo della Riva, much of the correspondence between Verne and
Hetzel has slowly come to light. And, this past year, Dumas, della Riva, and
Verne scholar Volker Dehs have published what will certainly prove to be a
milestone book entitled Correspondance inédite de Jules Verne et de
Pierre-Jules Hetzel—the first of an expected three-volume set that will
reproduce all the known correspondence between Verne and Hetzel, nearly 430
letters by the former and 250 letters by the latter (copies of which were found
in the Hetzel Archives). This veritable treasure-trove of primary materials will
no doubt revolutionize our understanding not only of the editorial relationship
between Hetzel and Verne, but also of the Voyages Extraordinaires
themselves and how they came to be what they are.

For example, scholars have generally acknowledged that Hetzel sometimes acted
as Verne’s censor, requiring the latter to conform his narratives to
"house rules" in all matters of pedagogy, morality, and ideology—a
dictate that eventually caused Verne to complain about the "milieu assez
restreint où je suis condamné de me mouvoir" ("the rather narrow
milieu that I am condemned to move around in") (Parménie 107). The textual
consequences of this censorship are clearly visible throughout the Voyages
Extraordinaires themselves, particularly if one compares those novels first
published in Hetzel’s Magasin d’éducation et de Récréation (or
published therein after Hetzel’s death in 1886) with those that originally
appeared elsewhere. In the latter, the long pedagogical passages are diminished
in length and intrusiveness, science and technology are less central to the plot
itself, Verne’s sometimes risqué humor and word-play are more apparent, and
questions of politics, religion, and human morality now tend to occupy
center-stage in the narrative. Compare, for instance, the role of pedagogy and
science in Vingt mille lieues sous les mers (1870, Twenty Thousand
Leagues Under the Sea) or L’Île mystérieuse (1875, Mysterious Island)
with its more fanciful treatment in Voyage au centre de la terre (1864,
Voyage to the Center of the Earth) or Mathias Sandorf (1885, Mathias
Sandorf), or even its comparative absence in novels such as Le Tour du monde
en quatre-vingts jours (1873, Around the World in 80 Days) or Les
Tribulations d’un Chinois en Chine (1879, The Tribulations of a Chinaman)—all
of which were first published in the journal Le Temps. As for Verne’s
humor, note the striking contrast between the rather burlesque decorum of Les
Enfants du capitaine Grant (1867, In Search of the Castaways) and the often
bawdy tone of his later novels such as Clovis Dardentor (1896, Clovis
Dardentor). And, finally, consider the many "heroic" scientists and
engineers appearing in Verne’s early positivitic works such as Cinq
semaines en ballon or De la terre à la lune (1865, From the Earth to
the Moon) versus their evil and/or satiric counterparts portrayed in various
post-Hetzel novels such as Sans dessus dessous (1889, The Purchase of the
North Pole) or Maître du monde (1904, Master of the World).

But Hetzel’s role in shaping Verne’s fiction becomes even more apparent
if one closely examines the correspondence between them. Here, the documentary
evidence is irrefutable. Hetzel did much more than simply edit Verne’s rough
drafts for style and ideology: he actually collaborated in writing them, and his
input fundamentally altered the content of these works. Examples of Hetzel’s
(often dictatorial) editorial intervention are too numerous to quote in their
entirety, but a selected number of excerpts will give an idea of its
proportions.

Throughout the early years of their collaboration, Verne was both sensitive
to and thankful for Hetzel’s suggestions and critiques, and he invariably
modified his texts accordingly. Note, for example, Verne’s reaction to the
substantial corrections that Hetzel proposed for his Voyages et aventures du
capitaine Hatteras, which included, among others, totally rewriting the
conclusion of the novel (Verne had originally portrayed Hatteras as committing
suicide by throwing himself into an active volcano, followed by his faithful dog
Duk [sic]. Hetzel strongly objected. So Verne went back to the drawing-board and
came up with a more "psychological" ending where Hatteras returns
alive but is now hopelessly insane, obsessively walking toward the North):

[I promise you that I will take them into account, for all these
observations are correct.... It is not a director who writes to me, it is a
friend in whom I have the utmost confidence; besides, I repeat, I feel as you
do....

I think, after reading your letter, that you generally approve of the
insanity and the end of Hatteras. I’m very pleased; it has been worrying
me....

We’ll chat about all this upon your return, and we’ll chat about it at
length. Have you ever found me recalcitrant on the question of deletions or
rewrites? Didn’t I follow your advice in the Balloon [Five Weeks
in a Balloon] and took out the long narrative by Joe, and did so without
pain?

You say some very nice, even flattering, things about my style which is
improving.... Nothing gives me more pleasure than such approval coming from
you. I assure you, nothing means more to me. But in one corner of my thick
skull, as you say, I wonder if you haven’t sugar-coated [gilded] the pill a
bit. I assure you, my good and dear Director, that there is no need to
sugar-coat [your critiques]—I will swallow [them] dutifully and without
sweetener.]

Throughout this early period, Verne’s correspondence is repeatedly
punctuated with expressions of almost filial gratitude for Hetzel’s extensive
input and guidance. For example:

je m’en occupe extrêmement, et je travaille fort à vous contenter. (30)
[I’m spending an extremely large amount of time on it, and I’m working
hard to make you happy.]

This editorial "honeymoon" came to an abrupt halt, however, when
Verne and Hetzel found themselves in total disagreement over certain aspects of Vingt
mille lieues sous les mers, especially Verne’s proposed portrayal of
Captain Nemo and the motives for his vengeance. Verne originally depicted Nemo
as a brilliant Polish scientist driven to violence by his intense hatred for the
Russian czar who had massacred his family (a reference to the bloody Russian
suppression of the Polish insurrection five years earlier). But Hetzel was
deeply concerned about the possible diplomatic ramifications of such a fictional
characterization as well the likelihood that the book would be banned in Russia—a
lucrative market for Verne’s books. So, for political and commercial reasons,
he proposed that Nemo be portrayed instead as a sworn enemy of the slave trade,
thereby providing a clear ideological justification for Nemo’s merciless
attacks on certain seagoing vessels. Verne strongly disagreed. In the end,
neither Verne nor Hetzel would give in. And so, in the final version of Vingt
mille lieues sous les mers, Nemo’s exact motives remain intriguingly
obscure—at least until his later reappearance in the final chapters of L’Île
mystérieuse, where his true identity as Dakkar, Prince of India and
implacable foe of the British, is finally revealed.

In the flurry of author-editor correspondence during this incident, the
following letter from Verne to Hetzel (dated May 17, 1869) seems especially
revealing. It demonstrates very clearly how the overall tenor of their working
relationship had apparently changed from that of father/son or master/pupil—
where the inexperienced Verne was quick to obey—to one of a professional
disagreement among equals where Verne, although still cordial and carefully
deferential, now stands up to his erstwhile mentor and refuses to back down:

[Your letter greatly disturbed me for two days, and I wanted to reflect
much on it before responding.

I see now that you are imagining a fellow very different from my own. And
this is very serious, even more serious because I am totally incapable of
depicting what I don’t feel. Obviously, I don’t see Captain Nemo as you
do.

I justify this terrible action of the Captain by the provocation that is
aimed at him. Nemo doesn’t sink ships simply to sink them; he does not
attack; he responds to attacks. Nowhere, despite what your letter says, have I
portrayed a man who kills for the sake of killing. He is a man of generous
nature whose emotions sometimes become incensed by the milieu in which he is
living. His hatred of humanity is sufficiently explained by what he and his
loved ones have suffered....

You have said to me that abolition of slavery is the greatest economic fact
of our time. I agree, but it is totally irrelevant here. I liked the incident
of John Brown because of its concision, but, in my opinion, it weakens the
Captain. We must keep vague his nationality, his person, and the events that
threw him into this strange existence.... If Nemo wanted to avenge himself on
the slavers, he would only need to serve in Grant’s army....

You are right about Aronnax’s reaction, and I’ll change that. But for
Captain Nemo, that’s something else. In explaining him in a different
manner, you change him to such an extent that I can no longer recognize
him....

In sum, your letter really worried me. Nevertheless, I think that we can
work this out by proceeding as we always have. Reread [the text] to the very
end.... Make your observations and I will take into account all that are
possible....]

Obviously, the editorial dynamic here has changed. Verne’s previous
willingness to blindly follow Hetzel’s editorial suggestions ("All your
observations are perfect") has now become a willingness to consider but
not necessarily to follow such advice from his mentor ("Make your
observations and I will take into account all that are possible").

A few years later, Verne and Hetzel once again came to loggerheads over a
manuscript that, after much editorial wrangling, would eventually be published
as L’Île mystérieuse. At one point, following his receipt of a letter
from Hetzel containing yet another lengthy list of criticisms—among others,
about his portrayal of the character Ayrton—Verne, clearly exasperated,
replied to Hetzel in the following terms on September 23, 1873:

[My dear Hetzel, it would take pages to answer you, and discussions by
letter are pointless. I will be in Paris next week, and we will chat as long
as you want....

However, I won’t hide from you [the fact] that you are going to end up
making me disgusted with this book. And, since I am in the middle of the
third volume, I must keep my faith in it until the very end.

All that you say to me about Ayrton becoming a savage is, for me, of no
importance. All the psychiatrists of the world won’t change a thing. I
need a savage....

I nevertheless strongly feel—and I will say this to you as I would to
another—that it [this book] will be no worse than the others and that,
marketed as well as them, it will be a success.... To repeat, these
[constant critiques] are like buckets of cold water that you are dumping on
my brain.

Insofar as the format is concerned, granted. I have told you a hundred
times that I can see it clearly only on the proofs. The differences of
language not being emphasized enough among the various characters, also
granted. But all that can be done without difficulty.

In any event, we’ll chat....]

Hetzel, no doubt taken aback by the frustrated and aggravated tone of Verne’s
letter—and perhaps fearful that his highly popular author might be
contemplating a change of publishing venue—promptly replied a few days later
with a soothing and highly uncharacteristic letter that addresses the very
nature of their editorial relationship:

I’m back home. I have very carefully [with "ferocious care"]
looked over the first 15 sets of proofs for the first volume of Mysterious
Island.

It has been enormously improved by you. I am certain that, with my new
comments [and] additions, some of which may be useful to you, ... it will be
a real jewel.

But, my old friend, don’t discourage me from revising.... I feel that I
am seriously helping you by making it possible for you to let your
imagination fly, secure in the knowledge that a friendly and not too foolish
eye will look over your work afterwards.

Let us therefore support each other in our double roles, my old friend.
And, when we both become a bit angry, let us get beyond it by telling
ourselves that it results in a common good....

I have learned that you sent your corrected proofs directly to the printer.
For my editorial revisions, it is necessary that I see these proofs first. I
really must know what you have adopted or not adopted from among my
suggestions....

[It is not to once again reedit the proofs that you have definitively
corrected that I am asking you for them before the printer. It is to know
which of my corrections you have accepted....

Remove from your head the idea that a passion for editorial revisions is
pushing me to the superfluous. I would prefer a hundred times over having only
to send them to the printer. My eyes and my time would be the better for it,
believe me.

It is my awareness of the benefit that my inglorious toil can bring to your
work, to you, and accordingly to the Company that pushes me to do it...

Is that understood? ...

Yours, J. Hetzel]

Apparently, contrary to their usual protocol, Verne had sent his corrected
proofs directly to the printer instead of returning them (once again) to Hetzel
for a final edit before printing! Although most likely a simple oversight by
Verne, it is nevertheless very symptomatic of the extent to which Hetzel’s
unrelenting editorial intrusions were beginning to get on the author’s nerves.
And it is also illustrative of how their working relationship had changed:
Hetzel now feels the need to both explain and justify his editorial practices to
Verne, pleading for his understanding.

Lastly, although it is not included in this first volume of the Verne-Hetzel Correspondance,
Verne’s most uncompromising response to Hetzel’s demands for extensive
manuscript revisions occurred in 1882 and concerned another "robinsonnade"
called L’Ecole des Robinsons (Robinson’s School). Without apology and
without the deferential rhetoric he customarily used when corresponding with
Hetzel, Verne now firmly rejects the latter’s advice, saying:

[My dear Hetzel.... I have read very attentively your letter about The
Robinson School. It seems to me that the philosophical dimension that you
are suggesting is totally irrelevant to my subject matter, and would weigh it
down....

In your observations, there are some that I will take into account, but
there are others that are unacceptable [intolerable]....

Believe me, my dear Hetzel, and rest assured that I would not let a correct
observation slip by. But there are some that are in complete disagreement with
the subject as I understand it and as I intended to express it.

I will send you more copy soon. Until then, I remain cordially yours,

Jules Verne]

The manner in which Verne closes this particular letter—its "formule
finale" or "complimentary close"—is also especially noteworthy.
Verne’s earlier correspondence with Hetzel invariably closed with effusive
expressions of friendship and devotion such as:

The closings of Verne’s later correspondence with Hetzel, in contrast,
tend to demonstrate considerably less warmth and effusiveness:

Je vous serre la main. (188) [I shake your hand.]

Tout à vous. (188) [Yours.]

A vous bien cordialement. (197) [Very cordially yours.]

In other words, in examining not only their content but also the epistolary
style of these letters, it appears quite obvious that the "balance of
power" has shifted between author and editor.

But, despite Verne’s increasingly energetic defense of his rough drafts as
exhibited in these letters, it must be acknowledged that Hetzel’s overall
impact on the Voyages Extraordinaires was substantial indeed. In addition
to the evidence offered by their editorial correspondence, several of Verne’s
original manuscripts have also recently been discovered and published through
the efforts of Piero Gondolo della Riva, Olivier Dumas, and others. And, as a
result, scholars are now just beginning to understand the enormous magnitude of
Hetzel’s influence on Verne and his works.

On the one hand, we can now appreciate to what extent Hetzel’s obsessive
editing did unquestionably improve many of Verne’s early novels—deepening
their characterization, tightening their narrative structure, enriching their
literary style, and adding a variety of episodes and references that served to
broaden their appeal. With an uncanny sense of what the public desired and how
best to give it to them, Hetzel succeeded in harnassing Verne’s vast
imaginative energy, disciplining it, and channeling it toward the creation of
this new and phenomenally popular genre.

On the other hand, Hetzel’s "harnassing" of Verne’s creative
instincts often involved much more than friendly editorial feedback—it meant
requiring Verne’s fiction to adhere to the Magasin’s conservative
moral standards and targeted clientele. In other words, it meant censorship.
Among many other examples, it meant replacing certain risqué paintings in the
Nautilus such as the portrait of a "femme à demi-vêtue"
[half-dressed woman] with a virgin by Leonardo da Vinci as well as an exotic
"courtisane" with a demure Biblical personage by Titian. It meant
changing sentences in stories like Frrritt-Flacc (1884) from "il
jure comme un chrétien, se relève, regarde" [he curses like a Christian,
gets up again, and looks] to "il se relève en jurant et regarde"
["cursing, he gets up again and looks"]. And, perhaps worst of all, it
meant having the proud Captain Nemo uncharacteristically repent and confess his
sins at the end of L’Île mystérieuse when Hetzel changed his deathbed
words from "Indépendance!" ["Freedom!"] to "Dieu et
Patrie!" ["God and Country!"].

Understandably, some modern Verne scholars have strongly denounced Hetzel’s
heavy-handed editorial practices and interventionist role in shaping the novels
of Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaires. Jean-Pierre Picot, for example,
expressed the opinion of many when he stated that:

Such unilateral retrospective condemnations, however, strike me as both naive
and anachronistic. After all, for better or for worse, without Hetzel, the
novels of Jules Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaires might never have been
written. And without Verne’s Voyages Extraordinaires, the
nineteenth-century publisher Pierre-Jules Hetzel would probably be all but
forgotten today. For both, what started out as an enthusiastic "mariage d’amour"
may have ended up as a rather strained "mariage de raison." But this
sometimes stormy literary partnership did give birth to a truly historic legacy,
and generations of sf authors and readers have been its fortunate beneficiaries.